38. Azrathiel
AZRATHIEL
The kitchen gleams under morning light—every surface scrubbed clean, every trace of yesterday's violence erased. I've been awake since before dawn, methodically restoring order to the house while Ilyra slept the exhausted sleep of the grieving.
Her footsteps whisper down the stairs, soft and hesitant. I don't turn from where I stand at the stove, giving her space to compose herself before facing me. The eggs I've prepared sit warm in the pan—simple food, nothing elaborate. Comfort without pretense.
"Good morning, flower."
She appears in the doorway like a ghost of herself. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and her black hair hangs loose around her shoulders instead of braided. The haunted expression she wears cuts through me more efficiently than any blade.
"You're still here." Her voice carries no surprise, only a bone-deep weariness that makes my chest tighten.
"I brought you food during the night." I gesture toward the table where fresh bread, cheese, and preserved fruit wait alongside the eggs. "You need to eat."
She drifts closer, her movements careful and deliberate as if she's afraid sudden motion might shatter something fragile inside her. When she settles into the chair, I notice how her fingers tremble slightly before she folds them in her lap.
"I thought you'd left." She stares at the food without reaching for it. "Your job is done, isn't it? The wedding stopped, Bram gone, justice served."
I feel it then—the loosening. Contract clauses unraveling one by one as covenant magic recognizes completion. The binding that's held me to this realm, to her service, dissolves like morning mist.
My celestial chains shift beneath my skin, no longer pulling tight against infernal law. For the first time in centuries, I'm truly free to choose my path.
"You're right." I nod. "The duty has been fulfilled."
She nods once, sharp and final, then takes a small bite of bread. Chews mechanically. Swallows with visible effort.
I move to the chair beside her—not across the table like a guest, but close enough that our knees nearly touch. Close enough to catch her if she breaks again.
"I'm here for you, flower. Not for the contract."
Her dark eyes lift to meet mine, searching for deception she won't find. In their depths, I see the question she's too afraid to voice—the same one that's been clawing at my chest since the binding dissolved.
Will you stay?
Silence pulls taut, fragile as spun glass. Every instinct screams at me to speak, to fill the void with promises and declarations. But this choice—this moment—belongs to her.
I wait.
But she looks back at the food instead.
A slow hollow feeling forms in my stomach, spreading outward like ice through my veins. The way she avoids my gaze, the careful distance she maintains even while sitting close—it's answer enough.
"What will you do now?"
The question emerges quieter than intended, stripped of the commanding tone that usually colors my voice. I watch her shoulders rise and fall with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world.
She leans her head against my shoulder, and for a moment the hollow ache eases. Her warmth seeps through the fabric of my shirt, grounding me in this fragile moment.
"I'll pick myself up." Her voice is muffled against my sleeve. "Rebuild. Make my way in the settlement the way my father would have wanted for me."
The resignation in her tone cuts deeper than any blade. I breathe in that sweet scent that constantly surrounds her—honey and wildflowers and something uniquely her—trying to memorize it before it's lost to me forever.
"Will you be alright?"
She sits up, breaking the contact, and I immediately miss the weight of her against me. Her dark eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away again.
"I have to be." She shrugs, the gesture attempting lightness but falling short. "I have no other choice."
The words hang between us like a verdict. No other choice. Not even me.
I force myself to stand, putting necessary distance between us before my resolve crumbles completely. The chains beneath my skin pulse once—a reminder of what I am, what I'll always be.
"I will return to collect when the time comes."
I don't name the price. Can't bring myself to speak of taking her soul when she's already given me so much more than any contract could demand. The year stretches ahead of us both—finite, precious, borrowed.
Before I can step away, before I can retreat into shadow and spare us both this agony, she rises and moves to me. Her hands frame my face with devastating gentleness.
"Azrath."
The nickname breaks something inside my chest. She kisses me then—soft, lingering, tasting of tears and goodbye. I want to pull her closer, to hold tight and refuse to let go. Instead, I remain perfectly still, letting her lead, letting her choose.
When she releases me, her fingers trail down my jaw before falling to her sides.
"Go."
The word is barely a whisper, but it is dismissal. Of choice freely given.
I disappear into shadow.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days since I left her in that kitchen, sunlight streaming through windows I'll never see again. I count each one like a prisoner marking time on cell walls.
The Scorching Peaks of Vel'tar stretch endlessly before me, volcanic glass reflecting the blood-red sky. Another contract awaits collection—a fire djinn who thought himself clever enough to outmaneuver infernal law. They always think they're clever.
I tear open the rift with more force than necessary, stepping into the djinn's crystalline palace. The heat should be unbearable to most beings, but it barely registers. Nothing registers anymore.
"Lord Azrathiel." The djinn bows low, flames dancing across his translucent skin. "Surely we can reach an arrangement—"
"Your year expired at midnight." My voice carries none of its usual controlled menace. It sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Payment is due."
The djinn launches into desperate bargaining—offering treasures, territories, the souls of his enemies. Standard procedure. I've heard these pleas a thousand times before, but now they feel like background noise against the constant ache in my chest.
Where is she? What is she doing? Has she thought of me even once since I left?
The djinn attempts to flee through a mirror portal. I bind him in shadow without conscious thought, muscle memory taking over where my focus fails. His essence dissolves into the contract, another debt settled, another meaningless victory.
The silence that follows feels suffocating.
I return to the infernal plane and consult my ledger. Two more contracts expire this week—a sea witch in the Bitter Straits and a necromancer hiding in the Whispering Marshes. Tasks that once brought satisfaction now feel like elaborate distractions from the growing void inside me.
The celestial chains beneath my skin pulse weakly, no longer pulled taut by binding magic. They've grown dormant without her presence, like flowers wilting without sunlight. The freedom I thought I wanted tastes like ash.
Call for me, I think desperately as I step through shadows toward the marshes. Just once. Say my name.
But the connection remains silent.
The necromancer proves more entertaining—he actually manages to surprise me with a bone construct that nearly catches my arm. For a moment, the thrill of combat distracts from the constant hollow ache. Then it's over, and the emptiness returns with crushing force.
I collect his soul mechanically, filing the contract away with the others. Another mark in the ledger. Another step further from her.
This is madness. I stand on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Weeping Falls, watching water cascade into mist far below. She's a mortal. A human girl who lasted barely a month in my presence before choosing solitude over—
Over what? Over a demon who can offer nothing but violence and eventual death?
The sea witch's collection takes three days. She hides in underwater caverns, protected by kraken spawn and tidal magic. I hunt her with methodical precision, my shadows cutting through water like black lightning. When I finally corner her in the deepest trench, she laughs.
"You look terrible, Lord Azrathiel." Her voice bubbles through the crushing depths. "What mortal has gotten under your skin?"
I devour her without responding, but her words echo in the darkness long after her essence fades.
What mortal indeed.
I return to my obsidian tower and pace the empty halls like a caged beast. Every surface reflects my haggard appearance—eyes dimmed to copper instead of gold, skin losing its ember-glow, movements lacking their usual predatory grace.
The contract ledger sits open on my desk, pages fluttering in an unfelt wind. Ilyra's name glows faintly on the parchment—ten months remaining before collection comes due.
Ten months of this agony, and I'll only see her on the day she dies?
I close my eyes and reach out through the shadows, searching for any trace of her presence. The thread that once connected us pulses weakly, distant but unbroken. She's alive. Safe.
And she hasn't called.